


Surrender

by citron_presse



Category: Chicago Fire, Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_presse/pseuds/citron_presse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzie calls the fire department and sets in motion a series of encounters.  Set in a future beginning around fourteen months after current events on <i>Chicago Fire</i> (that is, episode 1.09 ish).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waltzmatildah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/gifts).



 

Written for the [](http://chicagofire-tv.livejournal.com/profile)[ **chicagofire_tv**](http://chicagofire-tv.livejournal.com/)  [Holiday Gift Exchange](http://chicagofire-tv.livejournal.com/10308.html) for the prompt: Kelly Severide/Izzie Stevens [Grey's Anatomy] |  _But lately I'm feeling down, and in my nice dream I could see your blouse. It was bright yellow and it made my day..._

\- - - - -

Benjamin (the name was inherited, along with the cat it’s attached to) likes to climb tall structures and get stuck at the top.

She knew this about him.  Observed the roughly quarterly comedy routine of her boss attempting to scale the tree or pipe or whatever, almost falling, and calling the fire department.  It always surprised her when they came, made her wonder if some disaster was occurring across town unchecked while Ben hissed at them and flailed his paws and finally, with indignation and a great deal of yowling, got returned to Dr. Houston’s arms.

She never expected to be the caller, to dial 911, say  _Fire_ and, shamefully, respond to the despatcher’s  _Ma’am?_ with,  _Uhm, it’s a . . . it’s a . . . itsacat.  Yes, I said cat!_   She never expected to be in charge of a rundown free clinic in Chicago, either.  Never expected her boss to die suddenly, or to stay here longer than a year or two.  In fact, the only thing in her life she ever truly  _expected_  was to be a surgeon, and look how well that turned out!

She may as well give into this and smile nicely at the firefighter walking her way.

“Yours, right?” he says, attempting to extricate the velcro-like feline from the sleeve of his bulky jacket.  He gets Ben in one hand, under the belly, and deposits him in her arms, raises his eyebrows and waits in silence.

She interprets this as disapproval and launches into an explanation:

“Okay I get it.  I’m not an idiot.  I know you have more important things to do.  I know it’s cliché.  I’m sorry I wasted your time.  But, seriously, what was I--?”

“I don’t,” he says.  “Have more important things to do.”

The raised eyebrows turn into a sort of smile.  She thinks maybe she made a mistake and that’s the expression he was going for in the first place, it just took him a long time to get there.  He leans slightly towards her, like he’s about to share something confidential.

“I’m on cats today,” he says.

She can’t tell if he’s joking or serious, happy about it or miserable; and, it’s weird, but she has the sense, neither can he.  He shifts from one foot to the other, straightens up and moves back from her a little.   “All in one piece?”  he asks, indicating Ben.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she says, then thinks maybe she should acknowledge the work he did by being a little more concerned and prods the cat a few times.  “He’s fine,” she confirms.

He nods, smiles the awkward eyebrow smile again.  “Great,” he says.  “You have a good day.”

Ben digs his claws through her sweater into her skin, and she glances down to pull his paws away.  When she looks up again, the firefighter is climbing into his truck.

She realizes she never really thanked him and, for some reason, something more than politeness she can't quite fathom, wishes she had.

\- - - - -

Her date stood her up.  She’s torn between the blow to her ego and relief at not having to struggle through a second attempt at a semi-inspiring dinner.  Either way, she decides to order another drink – she can enjoy it while she works out whether it’s self-commiseration or celebration.

She can’t quite place the man at the bar, until he turns briefly to look at her and raises his eyebrows.

Oh!  The firefighter.

“Ben!” she exclaims.

“Uh, Kelly?” he offers, then glances at the man next to him, who rolls his eyes.

“No, my cat,” she clarifies.  “Ben.  You rescued him!  The tuxedo cat at the Free Clinic on –”  She takes a breath to stop herself from talking uncontrollably.  This will be her third drink; she’s been waiting a while.  Also, she’s suddenly unaccountably nervous.  Well, okay, not so much unaccountable, more highly accountable: she pretty much only talks to men these days on mediocre dates, when she’s diagnosing them, or handing over her credit card in stores.  This is different: the whole silly cat business; the fact that it’s dawning on her that he’s the most attractive man she’s stood this close to in forever; the fact that, without quite realizing it, she’s been thinking about him on and off.  “Izzie,” she says.  “Dr. Isobel Stevens.”  She sticks out her hand, then retracts it before he gets a chance to reciprocate, adding one more (redundant), “Izzie.”

He nods slightly. “Still Kelly,” he says, and she honestly can’t tell if he’s as nervous as she is or teasing her.

“God, you weren’t kidding when you said you’re out of practice, were you?” the other man says.  For a moment, she wonders whether he’s talking to the firefighter (Kelly) or her, then he leans across the bar and offers his hand.  “Matt,” he says.  His handshake is firm.  “Pleased to meet you, Izzie.”

There’s an awkward pause, while they all look at each other, until Kelly says,  “Can I buy you a drink?  I mean if . . .”

He trails off, seeming uncertain, while she debates with herself.  She really wants to say  _yes_ , but she doesn’t want to appear too eager, or any more of a crazy person (ugh, cat lady!) than she probably already does.  Apparently, she hesitates a little too long, though, because Matt stands up and pulls on his jacket.  “Have a drink with him,” he says.  “He saved your cat, right?”  He grins broadly and Kelly gives him a playful dirty look, says, “Ass,” under his breath, then turns to her, as Matt leaves.

“Ignore him.”  He smiles.  “Except for the part where you have a drink with me.”

\- - - - -

“You must’ve thought I was an idiot,” she says, a vodka tonic and a half later.

“I thought you were hot,” he says, making her face flush, in fact her entire body.  Then he adds, softer, “You were a nice first day back at work.”

“First day?” she asks, flustered and curious.

He nods slowly.  “Yeah, I was . . . I was out for a while.”  He drains the last of his drink.  “You wanna . . . ?”  He begins, and she kind of gets her hopes up.  She’s now past her fourth drink and, really, what the hell?!   She thinks he’s hot too! Then he stalls, hesitates, abruptly shuts down everything that was just now warm and easy and open, leaving nothing left to connect to.  “You know what?  I should probably go,” he says.  "Thanks for the, uh . . . thanks, okay?" and walks away and out of the bar, as she gapes after him, too bewildered even to be insulted yet,  just wondering why?

\- - - - -

Ben goes climbing again.  The clinic's handyman tries to retrieve him, but almost falls (of course) when the claws go for his face.

She calls 911.   Has the shameful conversation again.   _Yes, a cat._

A different firefighter gets him down; a friendly guy with almost black hair, an almost black moustache and a laid-back way with Ben that makes him instantly calm and docile.

She tells herself she’s not disappointed (at least, only in herself for being ridiculous) that he’s not Kelly.

\- - - - -

It’s snowing.  She forgot eggnog for the clinic holiday party and the closest 7-Eleven is not ideal, but will just have to do.

At the checkout, the man behind her in the line says,

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she replies, not really looking as she pulls out her wallet, until he adds,

“Remember me?”

and she looks up and realizes she does.

He grins, only slightly awkwardly.  He seems somehow more solid, healthier, than before.  “Are we good?”

Of course, she knows what he means, but it suits her sense of poise to pretend she doesn’t.  “I’m sorry, I don’t --“ Except she really doesn’t have much poise where this is concerned.  And yet, she still tries, “You rescued my cat and your friend made you buy me a drink,” noting with embarrassment that she’s digging herself deeper with every word, until,  “it’s not like we were on a date or anything!”

He nods slightly, glances upwards, then grins at her again.  “ _I_ kinda was,” he says.

Any smidgen of poise left now evaporates completely.   “You were?”

“Yeah,” he says softly.  “Sorry I bailed.”

She swallows, hesitates, commands herself to just not . . . NOT . . . do not invite him, Izzie!  “Do you like eggnog?”  She despairs of her lack of self-control, even as she waves one of the cartons at him.

He scrunches his face with distaste, and she protests.

“It’s Christmas!  You drink eggnog at Christmas, okay?  And I had patients, so I—”

“I like  _you_ ,” he stops her, the raised eyebrow smile thing she remembers playing on his face.

She flushes, like the time in the bar, over every inch of her flesh, fumbles over the carton and drops it. He catches it deftly, hands it back to her and, for a moment, they just stand and stare at each other, eyes barely blinking, until she manages,

“Do you want to come to a party?  At my clinic?  You don't have to actually drink the eggnog!”

He agrees, ends up paying for her eggnog along with his beer, and carries the shopping bag to her car.

\- - - - -

When the party’s over, they sit on the floor of her office, backs against Dr. Houston’s huge old desk that she still hasn’t gotten rid of, drinking the bourbon he secreted in its bottom left drawer for “emergencies.”

“You didn’t come back!” she says, playfully accusing.  “I thought you were in charge of cats . . . or whatever!"  She laughs, he rolls his eyes.  "So when I called –”

“I’m back on squad,” he says, obviously proud of himself.

“Which means?” she asks.

“That now I have more important things to do,” he says, and she slaps him lightly, then refills their glasses.

“So what should we drink to?” she asks him, raising her glass.   When he doesn’t really respond, just half-smiles and turns his glass around in his hands, she sighs.

 “Seriously?!” she blurts.   He looks at her, questioning.  “You’re gonna walk out again?”

He swallows, shakes his head slightly.  “Not unless you want me to.  It’s just . . . I have baggage, Izzie, and –”

“Baggage?” she breaks in, infuriated, perturbed that she cares, wishing he’d just . . . shit or get off the damn pot, her grandmother would have said!  “ _You_ have baggage?”

He nods.

“Okay, let me tell you about baggage!” She knows she’s had too much to drink again when she rolls up her sleeves before she continues.  Nevetheless.  “I grew up in a trailer park, got pregnant in high school, had my baby adopted.  I paid my way through med school by modeling lingerie.”

His eyebrows shoot up, as his eyes run over her body.

“Yeah, whatever,” she waves him off.  “In my first year of surgical residency I fell in love with a patient, got engaged to him, and he died.  Possibly sooner than he would have because of me.  So they put me on probation, and I screwed up in every possible way, until I found out I had cancer –”

“You have --?”

“No,” she shakes her head, impatient at first, then lulled a little by his attention, the concern in his eyes.  “I’ve been in remission for years.”  She continues a little softer, a little slower, with a little less anger and a little more letting go.   “I went crazy for a while - the cancer caused it.  My best friend died, suddenly and horribly.  I got married and divorced, very messily – I messed both of us up, badly, especially him.  I gave up being a surgeon and ended up here, working eighteen hour days, with no personal life, unless you count an escapologist cat and dates with. . . dates with . . .” Suddenly she finds herself crying, and desperately pulls a tissue from the box above her head on the desk and blows her nose  “So don’t talk to me about baggage, okay, because I have enough for both of us!”

He takes a long swig of his drink.  “How about a broken neck and a drug habit?” he offers. “And the rest of it . . ." he sighs, "let's just say, we have some stuff in common."

“Oh,” she breathes, not quite sure if she feels understood, or understanding, or somewhere between the two.

“The first time I met you,” he says,  “I’d just gotten out of rehab.  It was my first day back on the job – on probation.  The department had me see a shrink, and --"

“Sssshh,” she says softly, putting a finger against his lips.  “I like you too.”

\- - - - -

In the morning, Ben crawls onto her pillow and purrs for breakfast.  She picks him up, gently gets out of bed so she doesn’t disturb the man sleeping next to her, and desposits him outside the bedroom, whispering, “Give me an hour, okay?”, shutting the door between them.  If the cat takes it as an opportunity to climb something – well, she has the fire department right here.


End file.
